Kitabı oku: «Killer Heat»

Praise for the novels of Brenda Novak

“The Perfect Couple was fast-paced and extremely engaging from the very first page…. Once I started, I couldn’t stop! Definitely, most definitely add The Perfect Couple to your reading list.”

—True Crime Book Reviews

“Novak delivers another expertly crafted work of suspenseful intrigue heightened by white-knuckle danger and realistically complicated romance.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Couple

“I guarantee The Perfect Couple will keep readers on the edge of their seats…The story line sizzles.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Realistic and gritty, this story grabs the reader by the throat on the first page and never lets go.”

—RT Book Reviews on Watch Me

“Gripping, frightening and intense…a compelling romance as well as a riveting and suspenseful mystery…Novak delivers another winner.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Liar

“[A] chilling, sensual tale that features a host of skillfully developed characters and intricate, multilayered plotting. Sacramento-based Novak (The Perfect Liar) writes gripping romantic thrillers.”

—Library Journal on The Perfect Murder

“As always, Novak’s plotting is flawless, and her characterizations are rich and multilayered. What sets this story apart from the rest is the intensity of the romance…A keeper.” (4.5 stars, Top Pick)

—RT Book Reviews on The Perfect Murder

BRENDA NOVAK
KILLER HEAT

To Gail, one of my new B.F.F.s. You’re a generous soul.

May all your good karma come back to you….

Dear Reader,

Not long ago I was invited to speak in front of a writers’ group in Prescott, Arizona. Because I love Arizona, I accepted. I also agreed to stay with one of the group’s members so they wouldn’t have to put me up in a motel.

Once I arrived, I learned that this member didn’t actually live in Prescott, where I’d be speaking. She lived in a place called Skull Valley. I didn’t recognize the name so I had no idea it would be remote. I was driven into the desert and sheltered in this wonderful woman’s guesthouse, but she was a stranger to me at that time and I arrived in the middle of the night, already disoriented as to where, exactly, I was. The main house, which I visited briefly, didn’t feel very close to the guesthouse (which they had to drive me to). If you’ve read any of my suspense books, you know I can have a rather dark imagination. That night the wind blew constantly, rattling the door on the screened porch. It sounded just like someone trying to break in. I lay awake listening and feeling very vulnerable because there was no phone service, internet—or even cellular coverage. I was completely cut off in a strange and lonely place. What would I do if something terrible were to happen to me? I didn’t even know which direction to run should I need help—I could easily have ended up wandering lost in the desert.

Needless to say, that proved to be a very long night, especially when I began spinning a story in my head about the bones of several murdered women being found not far from where I was staying. I tried not to allow such ideas to flow, but the setting was just too perfect. A serial killer began to take shape in my mind…the serial killer in this book. So as you read, think of me huddled alone beneath the covers of a stranger’s bed on a cold night in January, somewhere in the middle of the desert, without so much as a cell phone….

I’d like to extend a special thank-you to Vincent J. Abbatiello and his wife, Jill (Jillsy to her friends) Abbatiello, a lovely couple who live on the gold coast of Long Island and winter in Palm Beach and St. Thomas. Vince is a periodontist and implant surgeon who graduated from Harvard Dental School. Jillsy is an active fundraiser for various charities who loves her show horses and two Maltese, Maxie and Suzzie. You’ll see Jill and Vince’s names pop up in this novel as characters, a privilege they purchased to help me raise money to fight diabetes.

I love to hear from my readers. Please snail mail me at P.O. Box 3781, Citrus Heights, CA, 95611 or visit me on the web at www.brendanovak.com, where you can read about my other books, enter various drawings, sign up for my newsletter, download a free 3-D screensaver (that moves), or check out the results of my latest online auction for diabetes research (something I hold every May on my website). To date, my donors, shoppers and I have raised more than $1 million!

Here’s to love and to life!

Brenda

“Resentment is like drinking poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

—Carrie Fisher, American writer and actress

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Epilogue

1

Francesca Moretti thought she couldn’t be seeing what she was seeing. So much junk cluttered the salvage yard that it could be any number of things, right? She wasn’t that close. And it was wrapped in a painter’s tarp and partially hidden behind some wood pallets, sawhorses and stacks of roofing material. But the longer she examined the size and dimensions of that shape, the more convinced she became. It was a human body.

Filled with revulsion, she shrank back into the shade of the closest outbuilding. The blazing July sun, bouncing off the sea of car carcasses, bent bicycle frames, even obsolete farm equipment, made her feel as if she was trapped in an oven instead of running down a lead on the outskirts of Prescott, Arizona. But it was panic and not heat that threatened to suffocate her.

Could this really be happening? Again? In her last big case, she’d located what was left of the missing wife and mother she’d been hired to find. The discovery had made national headlines; Janice Grey’s murder probably would’ve gone unsolved without Francesca. She’d provided the missing piece of the puzzle that confirmed a murder had taken place, which allowed investigators to go ahead and prosecute their prime suspect. But that type of thing didn’t happen very often and certainly not to the same private investigator. Francesca had pretty much decided it would never happen again. Not to her, anyway. And then…this.

Trying to ignore the Doberman who’d started barking like crazy the moment she set foot in the yard—fortunately, the dog was chained to the back of the house—she stared at what appeared to be a shock of brown hair spilling out from under that paint-speckled tarp. She wanted to identify the body, make sure it was her client’s sister, as she suspected.

But that could wait. She thought she smelled decomposition. And, judging by the stiffness of the corpse, apparent from the odd angles underneath the tarp, the body was in full rigor. There was no reason to look any more closely; the memory would only keep her up at night. Better to let the county homicide investigator handle the situation from here on.

Yes, get help. That was what she needed to do. Immediately. She didn’t want to ruin any forensic evidence linking April Bonner to the man who’d killed her.

Hands shaking, she fumbled in the purse slung across her body, searching for her iPhone. She was breathing shallowly. Try as she might she couldn’t override her body’s automatic response.

Calm down. You’re okay. Everything will be fine. You wanted to add missing persons to your list of services, remember?

She’d wanted to solve some difficult cases.

But that was just it. Locating people who’d gone missing wasn’t supposed to be this easy. And the goal was to find them alive.

Finally, her fingers encountered the phone. She was scrolling through her address book for Investigator Finch’s phone number when she heard footsteps—the purposeful stride of a man wearing boots from the sound of it—and brought her head up fast. She wasn’t alone? There’d been no answer when she knocked at the old wood-frame house facing the road, and she hadn’t heard a vehicle. But that didn’t mean anything. This was a big property, ten acres.

So weak she doubted she could run even if she had to, she peered around the corner of the building. She couldn’t see whoever was approaching.

Sweat, rolling from her hairline, dripped into her eyes. She blinked to clear her vision and prayed for a burst of adrenaline to stop her knees from turning to jelly. What was wrong with her? In her line of work, the threat of physical injury—or death—came with the territory. She’d known that from the beginning. But she’d always imagined herself as so much tougher, so much calmer in the face of danger. She hadn’t reacted like this when she was a cop, or when she’d found Janice’s remains scattered in that gully, had she?

No. But she’d worked property crimes when she was with Phoenix P.D. and, after that, the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office. And the day she found Janice, she’d been with a group of search-and-rescue guys she’d hired to scour land the police had decided was too far out. They’d stumbled across bones, which distanced her from the violence that had taken Janice’s life.

This was different. Francesca had just discovered a recent kill. She was alone in a relatively remote location. And no one else had any idea where she was. She hadn’t even notified Heather, her assistant, other than to say she’d be out most of the day running down leads. She’d driven from her home in Chandler two hours to the south and didn’t know anyone in the area.

“Who’s there? And what do you want?”

It was a man, all right, and he didn’t sound pleased to have a visitor. His harsh voice set the dog barking at a far more feverish pitch.

Unwilling to answer, and afraid to poke her head around the shed again for fear he’d see her, she pressed her back against the rough wood of the building. The bartender at the Pour House had told her he’d spotted a woman resembling April getting into a truck driven by the guy who owned this salvage yard: Butch Vaughn. She’d come out here hoping to speak to Vaughn. But after finding the figure beneath the tarp, she knew it wasn’t the time or the place to confront a possible killer. Especially a killer with a Doberman that could easily be released. The police could deal with it.

“I know you’re there,” he said. “Demon’s making damn sure of it.”

Demon had to be the dog. What an appropriate name…

“What are you doing trespassing on my property?” His footsteps had grown less decisive. He wasn’t quite sure where she was. “Don’t you have any manners?”

Her actions said more about her nerve than her manners. Pushing, even when others didn’t want to be pushed, and looking, even when they didn’t want certain things to be seen, was part of her job. Although she hadn’t always been so assertive, her desire to succeed had forced her to overcome her natural reluctance to pry. Timid private investigators weren’t going to help anyone. If the owner of this property hadn’t been seen with April, who’d been missing for three days, Francesca would never have considered intruding on his privacy.

Glancing behind her, she wondered if she should make a break for her car. Could she get around the house and all the way to the road before he caught her?

If her heart wasn’t already racing, she thought she might have a chance. Five years ago, she’d taken up running as a way to relieve stress and stay in shape. She prided herself on her athletic ability. But a quarter mile had never seemed as far as it did at this moment. And she had no illusion that she could outsprint a man who was in top physical condition. She’d seen this guy’s profile on the dating Web site where April had first come across him. If Harry Statham was really Butch Vaughn, as she now believed, and the muscular picture he’d posted was anywhere close to accurate, he was definitely fit….

“What’s the matter?” he called out. “Cat got your tongue?”

Her other option was pepper spray. Just after she’d been accepted into the police academy, her father had accidentally been shot by his own partner during a drug bust and been confined to a wheelchair ever since. Seeing him struggle with the loss of his mobility day after day, year after year, left an impression she wasn’t likely to forget. As soon as she quit the force to open her own investigative agency, she’d stopped carrying a gun. She no longer even owned one. But she needed some protection.

“I want to know why you’re snooping around,” he called out.

Was this Butch? It had to be. He’d said “my property.” Did he realize what she’d found? He had to at least suspect, didn’t he?

Doubting she’d be able to outrun him, she thrust a hand into her purse. He was coming up on the other side of the building; he must have guessed where she was hiding. The crunch of his soles striking the rocky desert soil ratcheted up her tension as if he had an external crank that stretched every nerve taut and tightened every muscle.

Where was her pepper spray? Had she lost it? She’d never really had to use it. She kept it with her as a precaution…

Shit! It wasn’t there.

She still had her phone in her hand. She dialed 911 but dared not speak into the receiver. He’d be on her before she could say two words. Whatever was going to happen would be over by the time the dispatcher could send a squad car. She had to run.

As she pivoted, her hand finally touched the cool metal of the canister. It’d been lost in the jumble of her belongings.

Thank God. Preparing for the confrontation to come, she withdrew her pepper spray and held it ready. But he didn’t walk around the corner as she expected.

She couldn’t hear his steps anymore. Was it possible that he didn’t know where she was, after all?

Swallowing hard, she held her breath and listened carefully. Where was he? What was he doing?

She didn’t have to wonder for long. Thanks to the dirty window at her elbow, she caught a brief glimpse of movement inside the building and realized it was actually an office and he was coming through it. There was an exit right next to her!

Whipping around, she jumped out of range of the door he flung open and sprayed him. At least, she tried to spray him. Nothing came out. Why, she had no idea. Her actions made him flinch and throw up his arms to protect his face and that was it. But seeing him up close confirmed her suspicions—Harry Statham was indeed Butch Vaughn. The man pictured on that dating profile looked identical to the owner of this salvage yard—the last person, as far as she could determine, who’d seen April alive.

Throwing the can, she heard it hit him but didn’t pause to see where. She was too intent on running. But no matter how hard her arms and legs pumped, she could hear him gaining on her.

The dog barked and yelped and growled as it pulled at its chain. She tried to ignore it. As dangerous as that animal sounded, it couldn’t hurt her. For now…

A second later, the dog became her last concern as Butch grabbed her purse, which was flapping behind her, and used it to jerk her to a stop. Yanking back, she fell when the strap broke. Then she dropped her phone, which bounced out of reach, and because of the sudden release of tension, he fell, too.

“Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?” Gripping her by the ankle, he dragged her toward him.

The hot dirt burned her bare arms and legs. A sleeveless blouse and skirt were probably the worst things she could’ve worn. He was dressed in blue jeans and a muscle shirt, which protected him, to some degree.

“Answer me!” he grated as they rolled around—she wrestling for her freedom, he trying to subdue her—but she was breathing too hard to respond. All she could think about was escape. She had to keep fighting regardless of the scrapes, the bruises and the burning ground.

It wasn’t long before he managed to pin her down. He had her left wrist, but before he could grab her right, she sank her nails into his cheek, gouging him deeply. She knew she’d gotten him good when he cursed and drew back.

His sudden recoil made it possible for her to scramble out from under him. She got hold of her purse but he obviously realized she was about to escape and caught it, too. She had to let go. It fell away, spilling, as she found her feet and darted around the house.

Although her BMW waited on the road ahead of her, her car keys were either in her purse or on the ground with her cell. She couldn’t drive anywhere, but she ran for her car, anyway.

Her sandals slapped her heels, and the smooth hard soles made her skid here and there, so it was a miracle she reached the front yard. Once she did, she hoped to flag down a car, but the road was empty. And Butch didn’t have any neighbors. Her one advantage was the fact that she’d done more damage with her nails than she’d expected. When she glanced over her shoulder, she could see Butch coming after her, but he wasn’t moving too fast. He staggered, wiping at the blood that dripped from his left eye and cheek.

She’d hurt him, which scared her even more. Fury rolled off him in waves.

Her breath rattled in her throat as she fought to make her shaky limbs follow her brain’s commands. If he caught her, she was dead. She could see a steely resolve set in as he shook off the pain and started to jog.

Thank heaven she’d left her car unlocked. It was a bad habit but she could only be grateful in this particular moment. Wrenching open the passenger door, which was closest, she got in and slammed it just as he stretched out his hand to stop her. He had to yank it away to avoid having his fingers crushed. Then he went for the door handle.

Lock! Lock! Lock! Frantically, Francesca swiped at the console and the upholstery, searching for the button that would secure the doors. In her panic, she couldn’t remember where the damn thing was—but she managed to hit it before he could open the door. She’d never heard a sound more comforting than the thunk of the locks snapping into place or the ineffective catch of the lever as he pulled it to no avail.

Closing her eyes, she gulped for air and would’ve been relieved, except that he was more enraged than ever. Glaring down at her, he banged on the window. “Hey!”

Frozen with terror, she stared up at him. If he got in, it would be over in minutes. She didn’t even have her iPhone.

Had emergency services received any indication that she’d tried to call? Were they sending help? Or had they assumed her call had been a misdial or a crank?

“What the hell’s wrong with you, lady?” he yelled. “I just want to talk. I want to know why you’re here.”

He knew she’d found the body. She could see it in his eyes. He was trying to convince her that she hadn’t really seen what she’d seen, that it was safe to trust in the trappings that surrounded them—the swing set in the front yard, the kiddie pool off to the side, the hand-painted welcome sign on the door. But she wasn’t that easily fooled. As much as the domesticity of the scene might tempt her to think she’d leaped to the wrong conclusion, especially when she saw the wounds she’d inflicted on his cheek, she knew killers often looked like the most mundane husbands and dads. She’d studied them in her work; rarely was it obvious that they were monsters.

Rocking forward, she covered her head. He was so close. All he had to do was break the glass. There was no one else around, no one to hear the window shatter or her cry for help.

“Go away!” she sobbed.

Suddenly, he stopped banging.

She sat up to see him using the bottom of his shirt to clean the sweat and blood from his face. Then he checked behind him, apparently searching for something, and stalked off toward the only tree in the yard. A bat leaned against the trunk, next to a ball and glove. Hefting it, he came toward her as if he intended to break the window. Before he could take a swing, however, the sound of a car engine drew their attention to the road. An old Impala chugged up.

Determined to get the driver to help her, Francesca crawled into the other seat and laid on the horn, but the effort proved to be unnecessary. The woman behind the wheel slowed, then turned in and parked as if she owned the place. She’d planned to stop here all along.

Clearly torn, Butch glanced between Francesca and the driver of that car. A little boy also sat in the Impala. Window down, round face sweaty, he waved and yelled from his car seat, excited enough that even Francesca could hear him. “Daddy! Daddy! We’re home!”

Butch’s expression changed instantly. Dropping the bat, he strode over to the Impala.

Now! Francesca let herself out on the side facing the road. She couldn’t expect the Impala’s driver to come to her assistance, as she’d originally hoped. Not if this was Butch’s wife. Francesca had to assume she was still on her own, because chances were she really was.

Locating her spare key beneath the back bumper, she tore it free. At the same time, the child got himself out of his car seat and demanded Butch pull him through the window.

The woman rushed around to join father and son. As Francesca darted back to the driver’s seat, she heard, “What’s going on? What happened to your face?”

Butch’s reply was too low for Francesca to make out, but the woman’s next question carried easily on air already saturated with heat and threat and panic. “What? But why? Who is she?”

This had to be Butch’s wife, as she’d guessed. The timing of her return home had most likely saved Francesca’s life. But Francesca wasn’t planning to stick around long enough to thank her or tell her about the body stashed amid the junk in the salvage yard. She was get ting out of here while she could.

Climbing behind the wheel, she tossed the magnetic container that had held her spare into the passenger seat, started her engine and punched the gas pedal.

2

“Holy shit.” Jonah Young came to a stop so abrupt Investigator Finch, with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office, slammed into the back of him.

“What the hell?” he muttered, but Jonah didn’t move. The woman Finch was taking him to meet sat in a chair just inside the entrance to the investigator’s cubicle. Cradling a cup of coffee, she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as if it was the middle of winter instead of the height of summer. But he knew she was fighting off more than the chill of the building’s aggressive air conditioner. She’d just been through a harrowing ordeal. When he called, Finch had told him that a P.I. from Chandler had been attacked. Finch’s partner, Hugh Hunsacker, had taken some deputies and gone directly to the salvage yard, where the incident had occurred, but Finch had stayed behind and asked Jonah to come down and have a talk with the victim. He hadn’t mentioned any names.

“I know her,” he said.

With his bald head, goatee and various tattoos, Finch resembled a biker more than a cop. “You do?”

“We attended the academy together.”

Jonah had been careful to keep from being overheard but Finch hadn’t. Francesca Moretti glanced at them over the rim of her coffee cup. Then she lowered it and any question that he could be mistaken about her identity disappeared. Even with her long dark hair mussed, her mascara smeared and her top lip swollen to almost twice its normal size, there was no mistaking the amber-colored eyes that riveted on his—or the contempt that instantly settled over her classic Italian features when she recognized him.

“Oh, boy. Doesn’t look as if she likes you,” Finch said, and skirted past him.

Jonah reluctantly followed. Francesca didn’t like him. And he’d given her good reason. But that was ten years ago. Surely they could put the past behind them now. She seemed to have gotten over him fairly easily, had never returned his calls when he’d attempted to apologize. And from what Finch said, there could be some connection between the missing teacher she’d been searching for and the murders they were hoping to solve. Figuring out who’d killed the women dug up in Dead Mule Canyon mattered more than his personal discomfort. Jonah had never been involved in a case so disturbing.

The investigator gestured toward him. “Ms. Moretti, you might remember—”

“Jonah Young,” she finished, never taking her gaze off him.

Finch hurried on. “Yes. I’m not aware of how familiar you two are with each other since the academy, but these days Jonah works for Department 6, a private security firm out of Los Angeles. They contract with individuals, companies, even different police entities, to consult on or assist with various hard-to-solve cases. I’ve asked him to—”

Her focus still on Jonah, she interrupted again. “I knew you weren’t with Phoenix P.D. anymore, or we would’ve run into each other. I thought maybe you’d been kicked off the force.”

Sure, he’d screwed up all his personal relationships during the short period during which they’d known each other, but he’d never even come close to losing his job. Ever since he was a little boy, he’d wanted to be a detective, and heading up investigations via the private sector was a better deal all around. With Department 6, he faced similar challenges, but he had more freedom and a much bigger paycheck—the best of both worlds.

“Sorry to disappoint you. They promoted me to detective within a year after you left. It was my choice to move on,” he said, but as he made his point, he wished he didn’t sound so damned defensive.

“Yeah, well, I’d accuse you of sleeping your way to the top, but the people above you were all men, and I know very well how much you like the ladies.”

Obviously uncomfortable with the way the meeting was deteriorating, Finch cleared his throat. “Look, I realize there’s some bad blood here. I don’t know what it’s all about, but I don’t need to know. I called Jonah in because I think the case he’s working on might be related to the man who just attacked you. Seeing as we have a big problem, more than one, and very few leads, it’s certainly worth investigating. Maybe this’ll be the break we need.”

At last, she pulled her attention from Jonah. “What are you talking about? Tell me he’s not searching for April Bonner. She lives in Maricopa County. That’s out of your jurisdiction.”

“We haven’t hired him to look for your missing person,” Finch said. “He’s on a much bigger case.”

Lines appeared on her otherwise smooth forehead. “Than murder? I told you, I just found April’s body!”

“And Investigator Hunsacker is out there checking into it.”

“Why aren’t we with him?” she asked. “Her body’s not easy to find, but I can show you where it is.”

“You were shaken up when you got here. I didn’t want to put you through it. Besides, Hunsacker will manage or he’ll call us, and I can drive you out there. This is important.” With his broad back to the opening of his cubicle, Finch began to whisper. “I’ve asked Jonah to speak with you regarding a burial site discovered by a hiker and his dog two weeks ago.”

“A burial site,” she echoed.

The investigator frowned. “It contains the remains of seven women. There may be even more. We’re still looking.”

Francesca’s jaw dropped and, at least for the moment, Jonah got the impression she’d forgotten her resentment toward him. “I heard about that on the news, but it was reported as some ancient Indian burial ground. It’s in Dead Mule Canyon, near that small town—Skull Valley.”

“That’s right. We haven’t corrected that report because…well, because we don’t want to throw the community into a panic until we know what we’re dealing with and can offer some information.”

And they preferred to escape the overwhelming pressure that would go with a public outcry. Jonah guessed that was as close to the truth as anything. No police department announced that they had a serial killer on their hands if they could help it. Many did everything they could to hide the fact, hoping the perpetrator would eventually move out of their jurisdiction. But there was no need to explain this. Francesca had worked in law enforcement long enough to understand the dynamics.

“And when the site was discovered, there was some question as to the age of those bones,” Finch added.

“What’s changed?” she asked.

“It’s since been determined that they’re—” he lowered his voice even further “—recent.”

For the first time, her implacable facade cracked, revealing a hint of vulnerability. “How recent?”

“A couple are as old as five years,” Jonah replied. “The other women have only been dead for a few months.”

Leaning forward, she set her coffee cup on Investigator Finch’s desk. “Are you telling me you think the man who just attacked me might’ve already murdered seven women?”

Jonah wasn’t absolutely convinced of that. What were the odds she’d be able to escape a violent psychopath when she’d encountered him on his own turf? What this guy had done to his victims proved he was utterly ruthless. But if there was one thing police work had taught him, it was to keep an open mind. “It’s a possibility,” he conceded. “Somebody murdered them.”

“Oh, God.” She jumped to her feet, turned to Finch. “And you’re not letting the public know to be cautious? To avoid strangers? Not to take risks?”

Jonah stood in the opening behind Finch while the shorter, stockier man tried to quiet her. “Keep your voice down! We don’t want to disseminate the information prematurely. We could tell pretty quickly that it wasn’t an old Indian burial ground, but we weren’t sure exactly what it was until we got a forensic anthropologist in here. We’ve set her up in the old community center and given Jonah an office there, too, but that kind of work doesn’t go fast, not with such an extensive site.”

“But—”

“We just got her initial report last night,” he went on, refusing to be interrupted. “We were planning to release a statement this afternoon, but then you arrived. Now I figure we might as well wait and see what Hunsacker finds at the salvage yard. Maybe this guy who attacked you, this Butch Vaughn, is our man.”

Having a suspect would certainly go far toward mollifying the public. But Jonah didn’t point that out, either.

Francesca smoothed her skirt. Dirty and wrinkled, it hit her just above the knees, showing calves as tanned and toned as they’d been when he knew her before. The only difference was the abrasions on her knees.

“That would explain why April was still in the yard,” she said. “Maybe, since the discovery of those bodies, Vaughn’s been forced to find a new place to dispose of his victims and hasn’t come up with a location he’s comfortable with.”

Jonah shoved away from the divider, nudging Finch aside. “Or he simply hasn’t had an opportunity to dispose of her in a more permanent fashion.”

The way Francesca suddenly refused to look at him told Jonah she was still having trouble including him in the discussion. Although she’d lowered her defenses for a moment, she’d already raised them again.

“Like I told you,” she said to Finch. “I think he’s married, which would limit his movements. I saw his wife or significant other and his kid. If it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be here. He was just getting ready to bash in my window when they drove up.”

“Other people live at the property?” Jonah asked.

She didn’t like talking to him; he could tell by her unwillingness to elaborate too much on any one thing. “It looked that way. So why he’s trolling for women on matchmaking sites designed for singles, I don’t know.”

“Plenty of married men do that,” Finch said. “They can troll from the comfort of their own homes while their wife and kids are asleep.”

“Did he use his real name on that profile?” Jonah asked.

She dug at her cuticles while she talked. “No, a pseudonym. Harry Statham.”

“I guess a little insurance never hurt anybody—” Finch started to say but Jonah spoke at the same time.

“How did you connect Harry Statham to Butch Vaughn?”

“Before she left Saturday night, April told her sister, who’s my client, that she was going to meet her new love interest at a bar called the Pour House here in Prescott. Since that was the last time any of her friends or family heard from her, and she didn’t report to work on Monday, I went to the Pour House to see if she ever showed up. The bartender told me that while he was outside having a smoke he saw a woman fitting April’s description getting into a truck with Butch. He knew him as a regular and confirmed that he looked exactly like the guy in the picture I showed him from the dating profile. He said he couldn’t have gotten it wrong—the truck had a Prescott Salvage logo on the door.”

Jonah tried to piece it all together. “Why would he use his own truck?”

“Maybe he wasn’t planning on killing her when he picked her up. At the very least, he wasn’t planning on getting caught, right? A lot of murderers use their own vehicles.”

“But if Butch is married, he wouldn’t kill April and leave her in the salvage yard, where his wife could stumble across her.”

“Actually, if you saw the place, you wouldn’t find that idea so far-fetched,” she said. “The yard is ten acres. And it’s a maze. You could hide a dinosaur in there. I’m not even sure how I spotted the body with all the junk piled around it. He probably still plans on transporting it somewhere else.”

“With ten acres, he wouldn’t necessarily have to transport it off the property,” Finch said.

“True,” Jonah agreed but turned back to her. “So what happened when you first got to the yard?”

She scowled. “I’ve already been through it all with Investigator Finch. If you want to know, just have him debrief you.”

Finch loosened his tie and sat on the edge of his desk, straining the seams of his chinos, which were a little tight on the thighs to begin with, due to the bodybuilding regime he so often talked about. “I realize we’ve been through some of this. But Jonah has a lot of experience with these types of cases. Two months ago he helped Texas authorities bring down a hospice worker responsible for the deaths of six elderly men and women. That’s why we brought him in. I’d like him to hear the details from your own lips, if you don’t mind.”

Her displeasure didn’t ease, but she returned to her seat, crossed her legs and began to explain what he’d missed before he arrived.

The phone rang; Finch answered it while they talked.

“Did you see under the tarp?” Jonah asked when he understood that she’d gone onto the property and started looking around after no one answered her knock. “Were you able to make a positive ID?”

She didn’t seem completely comfortable with her response. Shifting in her chair, she admitted that she’d chosen not to go that far.

The urgency in the investigator’s voice interrupted them. “Son of a bitch. You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“What is it?” Jonah asked.

Finch held up a hand; he wasn’t finished with the call. “No, I’m bringing her and Jonah out there now. Don’t let anyone go anywhere until then.”

Feeling the same alarm he saw in Francesca’s face, Jonah waited for the investigator to slam down the phone. “Well?”

“Vaughn wants us to file charges against Ms. Moretti.”

“For what?”

The gold chain Finch wore around his neck disappeared as he buttoned his collar and tightened his tie. “Assault.”

Francesca came to her feet. “What about the body?”

He grabbed his sports jacket from the back of his chair and herded them out of his cubicle. “Hunsacker can’t find a body.”

3

At Butch’s place, four police cars and an ambulance cluttered the sides of the road. As Investigator Finch slowed to a stop, Francesca caught sight of a young paramedic treating Butch’s injuries right there in the front yard. Already sporting a bandage over his left eye, presumably where she’d hit him with the pepper spray canister, he allowed the medic to dab some antiseptic on his cheek. But Francesca got the distinct impression that he was trying to make her look bad.

Somehow, in the short span of time since she’d driven off, he’d hidden April’s body. Now he was playing up his injuries as if Francesca had attacked him for no reason.

His wife, another man far slighter in build who looked just like his wife, and an older couple stood beside him while his four- or five-year-old son played in the yard. Francesca wasn’t sure if the older people and the smaller man were friends, family or neighbors, but the way they rallied around him made her think they were close, probably family. All the adults glared at her as Finch wedged his sedan into a spot not far from where she’d parked her BMW less than two hours ago. But it was the hatred in Butch’s eyes that unnerved her.

“He’s a murderer,” she muttered.

Finch shoved the gearshift into Park. “Yeah, well, we need proof. So let’s find it.”

Jonah made no comment but, even as upset, distracted and worried as she’d been, Francesca hadn’t been able to forget that he was the man who sat behind her in Finch’s car. She hadn’t seen him in ten years and yet her reaction to him hadn’t changed. It was as if she had some sort of internal radar that pinged at regular intervals when he was within range. Obviously, basic attraction couldn’t be trusted. He wasn’t the type of man she ever wanted to be with. After what he’d done, there was no question about that. So why did her heart skip a beat every time she looked at him?

Refusing to acknowledge the emotions Jonah made her feel, she got out of the car. One situation at a time. She was going to lead Finch to April Bonner’s body, then get the hell out of here. She’d go home, strip off her dirty clothes and sink her scraped and bruised body into a nice hot bath, where she’d soak until she was as wrinkled as a prune before diving into bed. Tomorrow would be another day—hopefully, a day she could spend at her newly remodeled office with the assistance of Heather, her receptionist, as she delved into her work. A day with no dead bodies or homicidal maniacs.

Investigator Hunsacker approached them first, wearing a tan-colored lightweight suit with distinct rings of sweat at the armpits. Although it was nearly five o’clock, the temperature hadn’t dropped more than a degree or two from the high of one hundred and eight; Hunsacker’s weight obviously made it difficult for him to tolerate the heat. Only five foot seven, no taller than Francesca, he had to weigh three hundred pounds. Sporting long Elvisstyle sideburns to go with his slicked-back hair, he wasn’t much to look at. He didn’t move well, either. He’d worn the sides of his mahogany-colored wing tips so far down on the outside edges that his feet appeared deformed.

“There’s no proof of Mr. Vaughn having done anything illegal,” he told Finch as soon as he was close enough to speak. “Certainly no proof of murder.”

“But I saw the body!” Francesca insisted.

Hunsacker’s eyes matched his black hair. They moved in Francesca’s direction, then darted back to Finch. “You didn’t tell her?”

“Not yet.” Finch frowned. “I want to make sure we’re talking about the same figure and the same tarp.”

“Should we take care of that now?”

Finch cast a glance at Butch. At least six feet six inches tall, he towered over everybody else like a giant lumberjack or the wood carving of Daniel Boone Francesca had once seen at a campground. “In a minute. Let me talk to Mr. Vaughn.”

Hunsacker waved them past. “Be my guest.”

“What didn’t you tell me?” Francesca whispered as they circumvented Hunsacker.

“You’ll see.”

There was no opportunity to press him for an answer. She had to deal with Butch, whose animosity stabbed her like a million invisible darts.

Refusing to be intimidated, she held her head high, but found it difficult to remain calm, especially with everyone else studying her, too. The police and paramedics watched her with open curiosity; those who weren’t with the police watched her with hostility. The people clustered around Butch had to be his family.

“Why’d you attack my husband?” Because the paramedic stood between them, Butch’s wife came forward before Butch could, but Jonah intercepted her.

After what she’d already been through, Francesca couldn’t help being grateful for the shield he provided. But she was determined not to show it. A few minutes ago, he was the enemy.

“I was only defending myself,” she replied coolly. “I came here to speak with Mr. Vaughn regarding—”

“You were what?” Butch had overheard. “Did I sneak onto your property? Was I going through your stuff? No. You had no business here.” Stepping past the paramedic, he shifted his attention to Finch and adopted a far more plaintive tone. “I didn’t mean to make her think I was dangerous. I was only trying to figure out if she was stealing from me. Or if she’d come around hoping to sell me something.” He grimaced as he raised a hand to his cheek. “Maybe I surprised her, but there was no call for violence.”

“She gouged him good,” the paramedic volunteered.

Francesca nearly asked the medic to butt out but chose to ignore him instead. “What about the woman you murdered and stashed under that tarp?” she demanded, speaking to Butch. “Have you told your wife about that?”

A pained expression, one that said she must be nuts for even suggesting it, settled over features as big and bold as the rest of him. He looked like a prizefighter, bulky but powerful. His dark hair needed a good trim—the front hung down practically to his eyes, and he had a wide nose that was slightly crooked, as if it’d been broken once or twice in the past. He wouldn’t have been attractive, except that his chin was strong enough to carry off such an intensely masculine face. “There is no body.”

Francesca had no intention of backing down. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

The old lady Francesca had noticed before pulled away from the man who’d been consoling her. “You don’t know what you saw. My son-in-law is a wonderful person. He’d never hurt a soul.”

Only the slight man with a fair complexion and pale blue eyes standing beside Butch’s wife seemed to look on without agitation. What was his take on this? Francesca wondered.

Butch drew the woman back. “Elaine, stay out of it. This lady is crazy. Who else would come onto a man’s land and nearly claw his eyes out?”

Francesca had seen what she’d done to his eye and cheek. The pepper spray can she’d thrown had split his eyebrow and she’d scratched his face. But she hadn’t blinded him, hadn’t even come close. He was exaggerating his injuries, hoping for pity. “You came after me,” she said.

“Give me a break! Do you really think I’d look like this and you’d look as good as you do if I’d wanted to hurt you?”

“How dare you claim I’m the one who’s at fault here!” she cried, but then she felt Jonah’s hand at the small of her back.

“Take it easy.”

Take it easy? She was shaking, from rage and the memory of Butch wielding that bat. He’d intended to smash in her window; he’d been that determined to reach her. What reason could he have for going to such lengths except to hurt her? If he was truly concerned that she might’ve stolen from him, he could’ve jotted down her license plate number and called the cops. He knew she wasn’t getting away with anything. She’d even left her purse behind.

The old lady wrung her hands. “This is so wrong! I don’t understand what’s going on. Everyone knows Butch wouldn’t hurt a soul.”

“Calm down, Elaine,” the elderly man, presumably her husband, said. “All this upset isn’t good for you.”

It wasn’t good for anyone. Struggling to control her emotions, Francesca filtered out everyone and everything except Butch, who was spinning the tale of the afternoon’s events to his own benefit. “What have you done with it?”

His pained expression didn’t change. “With what?”

“With the body. I saw it there. If it’s gone, you must’ve moved it. Where?”

“I didn’t move anything! It was a mannequin. That’s what you saw. This is a junkyard, lady. You never know what you’re gonna find.” A mannequin? Could that be true? There was nothing else remotely similar to a mannequin in the yard. For the most part, Butch collected metal. A mannequin would’ve been an unusual item, even here. But that had to be what he’d shown Hunsacker. Otherwise, Finch’s partner wouldn’t have reacted so oddly when she arrived. You didn’t tell her?

A hard knot formed in the pit of Francesca’s stomach. “No,” she said, shaking her head. She’d smelled death, hadn’t she? Yes. Maybe. Had she imagined it?

Spreading his arms wide, Butch appealed to the cops as if to say, See? She’s irrational.

“Stop it!” she snapped. “You know what happened here as well as I do.”

“And I’ve told the truth. But if you won’t believe me, come on. Let’s go take a look.”

He was too eager to prove himself. The knot in Francesca’s stomach grew bigger.

Investigator Finch caught Butch’s arm as he started off. “Why don’t we let Ms. Moretti do the showing?”

Butch didn’t appreciate being touched. His gaze lowered pointedly to Finch’s hand and a muscle flexed in his cheek. But as soon as Finch released him, he laughed and shrugged. “Fine by me. She likes to make herself comfortable on other people’s property.”

“Spare us the unnecessary commentary,” Jonah growled.

Butch seemed to notice him for the first time. Until that moment, he’d been looking only at Francesca—at least, when he wasn’t pandering to the cops. “Who are you?” he asked with apparent disdain.

Jonah coolly assessed Butch, as he might look at a man with whom he was about to step into the boxing ring. “Jonah Young.”

Butch’s eyes swept over Jonah as if taking note of his smaller but more defined body, assessing him in return. “A cop?”

“A consultant.”

“They bring in consultants for assault cases, do they?”

Jonah’s lips curved into a thin-lipped smile. “I’m not sure this is an assault case.”

That shut Butch up, told him that there might be at least one person present who wasn’t buying his act. When his nostrils flared, Francesca decided he didn’t like having a skeptic, any more than he liked being touched or having to suffer this influx of policemen. Still, he adjusted his expression and, if anything, broadened his insolent grin. “Well, you can always ask Investigator Hunsacker. I’ve given him and the rest of these boys access to the whole yard. They’ve poked through it all. If there was a body here, they would’ve found it.”

Hunsacker joined them just in time to confirm it. “That’s true.”

Francesca could feel Hunsacker’s support of Butch. Finch’s partner regretted being here. But she refused to let that shake her. She couldn’t imagine how Butch had sidestepped what should be coming to him, but…something wasn’t right.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Finch said. Then he sent her a pleading look and straightened his tie. He was beginning to sweat, too. Small beads gathered on his forehead. She got the impression the weather wasn’t exclusively to blame. She felt a little dizzy, a little nauseous, herself. The only person in her corner seemed to be Jonah, and she guessed he was sticking by her out of guilt, or some crazy notion that doing so might redeem him for his actions of ten years ago.

Would she embarrass herself? Maybe. A mannequin, especially if it was covered and seen from such a distance, could easily be mistaken for a human. Plastic or wooden limbs would even explain the “rigor” she’d noted. But what about the stench? Hadn’t she smelled rotting flesh?

She couldn’t say for sure. She only knew she couldn’t have been wrong about the level of danger she’d sensed when Butch came after her. Just the memory of how he’d looked at her when she managed to lock him out of the car made her skin crawl. He’d wanted vengeance, pure and simple. And she believed he would’ve taken it.

The walk around the house and into the salvage yard seemed to drag on forever. With every step, tension hummed through her like the electricity passing through the high-voltage wires overhead. Butch’s wife carried their son. He and his family trailed behind her, along with Jonah, Finch, Hunsacker, the paramedic and his partner and the deputies. They formed quite a group and would provide quite an audience.

Butch’s confidence and swagger told her this wouldn’t end well, but she was stubborn enough to have to see for herself.

The dog was secured to his usual spot. As soon as they came into view, he barked and strained against the chain that held him as if he’d like to devour one of them, but Butch snapped a command for him to “shut his trap” and he did. He whined and danced instead of acting aggressive, but he watched with razor-sharp interest as they crossed in front of him.

The office where Francesca had hidden earlier wasn’t difficult to locate. Neither was the spot where she’d seen the body—because the body was still there. The sawhorses and pallets had been shoved to one side, making a path, but the tarp-covered figure remained.

Once again, she felt hesitant to approach. It looked so real. But this time she didn’t stop until she stood barely a foot away.

No scent of decay filled her nostrils, only the astringent smell of desert scrub, which grew between the wrecked car bodies and other odds and ends. She told herself this might mean April Bonner was still alive. But she didn’t really believe it.

Stepping forward, Butch pulled back the tarp, showing her exactly what he’d told her she’d see. A mannequin. “I keep it covered to protect it from the sun,” he explained.

Francesca had to squint against the glare of that sun, but now there was no mistaking what she was looking at. She’d jumped to the wrong conclusion earlier. Finding Janice Grey’s remains a year ago had set her up, made her think she’d solved April’s case the same way. But, obviously, this was very different….

Finch fondled his goatee, then dropped his hand. “I’m terribly sorry for the trouble we’ve caused you and your family,” he told Butch. “We’ll get out of here and let you return to whatever you’d be doing if you weren’t entertaining us. Ms. Moretti, shall we go?”

“I told you he was innocent!” Butch’s mother-in-law cried.

“And look what you did to his face!” his wife added. The dog braved a bark and, surrounded by so much animosity, Butch’s son began to cry. But, once again, the slight blond man seemed oddly detached from the whole scene. Did he know something he wasn’t saying? Possibly, but not necessarily. He attracted her attention simply because he was so…placid. “He attacked me,” she repeated, not taking a single step. Was she imagining it or was the color of the mannequin’s hair a little different from what she’d seen earlier?

Squeezing her eyes closed, she quickly corralled that thought. The hair color couldn’t be different. What were the chances that Butch had been able to trade out the real body so fast? Very small. She was grasping for any way to avoid the chagrin and embarrassment of having dragged the police out here with such a wild accusation; that was all. She’d never been in a situation like this, where the integrity of her work was called into question, didn’t even know how to react to it.

“Ms. Moretti?” Finch again.

“Just a minute.” I know you’re there…. What are you doing trespassing on my property? Don’t you have any manners…? Who are you…? What the hell’s wrong with you, lady? I just want to talk…. Butch hadn’t actually threatened her with violence, hadn’t said anything that suggested he might kill her. And yet she’d known she was in serious trouble. Or did her panic all stem from having mistaken this mannequin for a corpse?

Jonah came up beside her. Knowing that he’d had a front-row seat to what had to be her most embarrassing moment ever made her humiliation complete. She’d often dreamed of running into him again, but those fantasies had always included an element of satisfaction, of finding some proof that he’d lived to regret cheating on her. After what he’d witnessed here, he had to be glad they hadn’t ended up together. “You okay?”